


What a Messs.

by Azirashell_Ascendant



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (okay so you probably haven't seen She Loves Me!), 6000 Years of Marriage (Good Omens), Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), DUCKS!, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Food Porn, Food Sex, Grumpy Old Men, Guess it didn't turn out to be a, In a way, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Just not the way you're thinking, Long-Term Relationship(s), Loving Marriage, M/M, Makeup Sex, One Shot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Romantic Soulmates, That's pretty longterm, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), True Love, Vanilla Ice Cream!, loving crowley (good omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21793777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azirashell_Ascendant/pseuds/Azirashell_Ascendant
Summary: Aziraphale's fretting is a remarkable aphrodisiac. But then, so is his tongue.Excuse me sir, your bench is on fire.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 36





	What a Messs.

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle with me, Senpai. It is my very first time.
> 
> PS- The POV jumps all over the place. The tensing's worse. I looked it over; I liked it; I left it in. Sue me.
> 
> Gently.

It's a good thing that A/C stands for air conditioning.

Augusts in London are _meant_ to be oppressive and airless, but this is unreal. Some days are simply too hot to argue with; we argue with each other instead. Crowley and Aziraphale had been arguing all day. They dined on the precipice of an out-and-out quarrel at lunch; now, they were subsiding back to a mere grumbling. Until they passed the duck pond.

"...something I would have expected from someone who is 6, not 6000."

"Lower your voice. _I_ am not the one who is making all those six-year olds stare."

"If you are suggesting.."

An ice cream cart came into view.

"Oh, look. Something that will cool you down and ssshut you up."

A pause. The gesture was both genuinely conciliatory and rather thoughtful. Mollified, Aziraphale drew closer, very slightly dropping his head as if to rest it on Crowley's shoulder. For a moment, their fingertips just slightly brush, a kiss.

" _You,_ my dear, may shut up, and let this be my treat."

Sadly, the ceasefire did not evolve into a truce.

"I thought snakes _thrived_ in the heat."

"And how many layers are you wearing?"

Sticky splashes of melted vanilla ice cream dripped onto Crowley's wrist. He looked down in genuine dismay.

"Are you ssserious?"

"Well, you wanted to try one."

"They never do this to _you_!"

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Aziraphale briskly reached over, but not to snatch the unhappy cone from Crowley's hand; he lifts both to his lips. Still tsking, Aziraphale began to draw his tongue conscientiously up the shaft of the cone. Arrested, Crowley slightly cocked his head, and licked suddenly very dry, very thirsty lips. Aziraphale's tongue flicked up a bit each time he had worked his way up to the cone's rim. Comically serious, he travelled the entire circumference. Arrested? _Mesmerised_. Crowley's initial gasp uncoiled itself into a shallow hiss. Whatever he was about to say asphyxiated. He had enough trouble finding air to breathe.

"If you weren't always so stubborn..."

Aziraphale swirled his tongue around the upper rim of the cone. First in small circles, occasionally licking upwards, catlike, to chase individual drips. He caught small mouthfuls of rapidly softening ice cream with swift, feather-light sucks **[1]** ; his fingers unconsciously stroking the inside of Crowley's wrist. Crowley's lips parted slightly. His customary slouch slightly straightened, making desperately needed room for his sudden erection. His specs were as intent and focused as the golden eyes underneath; his breathing hitched, almost a small suppressed whimper.

"And--Oh, your _poor_ jacket. I know how much you love this one."

Aziraphale dipped his head down once, taking a good half of the remaining ice cream into his mouth. He rose slowly, his lips gently smoothing it back into shape. _Mesmerised_. Unconsciously, Crowley's lean, graceful fingers folded around the back of the bench. His ragged breathing smoothed, as steady and deeply drawn as those earnest licks.

"...Completely uncalled for. If we had just--Goodness, I must look perfectly ridiculous!"

It should have broken the spell. But Aziraphale's flustered anxiety was as familiar as his own breathing. A low level fussiness and fretting that now was once again gloriously free of fear. As familiar, and as incessant. _Aziraphale_. Crowley softly shook his head, a smile under the sigh. It was agitating; it was exhausting; it was adorable. And snarking about it generally brought more.

"Yess...does look ridiculoussss."

Some of Crowley's blood diverted back to his brain. No interruptions. Their park bench found itself obscured by some very surprised trees. It barely registers with Aziraphale. He is chasing a recalcitrant bit of Flake. Crowley raises his fingers up along Aziraphale's wrist in return.

"I think that's the best I can do." Aziraphale's graceful fingers began to withdraw.

" _No_. Please go ahead and finish--it. It's really too ssweet for me." Anticipating Aziraphale's lost-to-pleasure expression is just about to push Crowley over the edge all on its own. Bemused, he found himself gripping the bench a bit harder, his smoked black glasses smoking of their own accord. He knows that he could push this forward any time; reach out to stroke Aziraphale's cheek, draw him close. Savour those lips himself. But then Aziraphale would stop talking. Crowley closed his eyes, wrapping himself in the angelic anxiety.

Aziraphale continued to be dead set on napkins. He was balancing the cone gingerly, shifting it in his attempt to rise both gracefully and still clean. Crowley's disappointment quietly exhaled into an exasperated, secretly amused groan. He slid over to collect the ice cream, inadvertently shaking yet more drips into increasingly sticky grass. Aziraphale watched the small drizzle and turned, opening his mouth to speak. The top of the bench was charred. Cheerful little wisps of smoke were still floating above the scorch marks. Demonic _agitation? We weren't even arguing...oh_. Aziraphale put two and two together with a small, private smirk. He rose quickly.

"I'm afraid this seems to be a dead loss," he said, taking a last surreptitious lick, "Since I appropriated your snack, the least I can do is offer you some lemonade. Shall we?"

 _Aziraphale and his sweets._ Even aroused, Crowley can't suppress the narrow smirk beneath his specs. He covers it with a disdainful hiss in the angel's direction. Aziraphale's own private smirk brightens into a smile. Excellent. As they make their way into the back of the bookshop, Aziraphale deftly avoids the sofa, guiding Crowley to his own leather armchair. He bustles away as Crowley flops over the back of the chair and stares at the ceiling. He sprawls out his long legs and draws them up again, squirming to get comfortable; trying desperately to outsmart both his skinny jeans and his insistent erection. When he hears the clink of glassware and ice, Crowley ironically makes a show of his arm as it listlessly droops down to set his specs on the table. A long finger idly traces the condensation on the glass, wondering if it's worth the bother of sitting up.

He hears the zipper before feeling the soft pressure of fingers on his fly. Aziraphale's serene "Snake or not, all that black..." blows warm air directly on the curves that trace up his glans to the crest of his cock. It both shivers and swells under the angle's breath. Crowley determinedly continues to stare at the ceiling. One look at Aziraphale's starlit curls between his legs and this would be over.

The first very firm kiss by very soft lips leaves him dripping. Aziraphale sweetly opens his mouth to taste it. His prim sucking nearly breaks Crowley's resolve. Good God, he loved this man. Only Aziraphale could suck someone off _primly_. Crowley's fingers lifted to stroke the leather of the armchair, as he curved further into Aziraphale's mouth. Aziraphale's tongue began to flutter about his head. So many songs, sculptures, soliloquies about angels straight from Heaven. Charming? Sure, some even brilliant. But no human was ever going to articulate _this_.

Aziraphale's smiles: the radiant, the giggly, the shy. Sugared smiles when tasted, perhaps because most of Crowley's opportunities came after dessert. _We may have to do something about that,_ he thought woozily. That was something he could _have_ ; just like drowning himself in the angel's scent without resorting to subterfuge, however fine the centuries had honed his tactics. Aziraphale's innocent, almost childlike hedonism; turning every experience into the first time. That bright, wriggling anticipation; that..that _bliss_ . How had he ever refrained from knocking over tables in a rush to sate his own hunger? Oh, those poor poetic mayflies...

Aziraphale draws Crowley's whole head into his mouth and the world sharpens. Sharpens, and crisps: a swift, unseasonable chill; crystallizing the air. His refracted Aziraphales are fracturing: sensations split apart and tumble over each other. Then it all merges into one sharp gasp: the sensations too fervently, single-mindedly focused; overwhelmed, overwhelming, and almost unbearably intense. Crowley spends his last coherent thought miracling Aziraphale's treasured waistcoat to safety. Then there _is_ no more Crowley; only pleasure. And joy.

Aziraphale rises; on the hunt for napkins _again_. This time, Crowley is having none of it; his lunge for Aziraphale's fly is almost a bite. He soaks into the camel-toned linen, and is rewarded with yet more fretting. It stills quickly this time, giving way to gasps. And moans. And sighs. Aziraphale caressed the nape of Crowley's neck, smoothing into a gentle, if rather staccato, massage. Occasionally, his hands would draw up to ruffle and stroke Crowley's hair, and suddenly warmth is now inviting. Crowley sinks into Aziraphale as hungrily as he sucks Aziraphale into himself. All the sharp angles of shoulder blades, collarbone, even the base of his jaw ease and melt away into his angel's full, yielding, cushioning thighs. He curls his tongue inwards, teasing Aziraphale's head and pulling it deeper into his mouth.

The stroking hands clench, and pull Crowley down the entire length of his shaft. In turn, Crowley grips tightly into Aziraphale's luxurious ass, losing himself in a swift, furious rhythm of ever increasing speed and intensity. A wry thought slithered: it is truly a fine thing to be a snake. Aziraphale had once shocked Crowley by referring to this as _skull-fucking._ ** _[2_ ]** He had choked on his drink and was still coughing while a put out Aziraphale lectured him on the utility of words. Words, Crowley had thought, too in love to laugh at him, watching his anxious face sputter with embarrassment and offended dignity. Stiffly, stuffy, _fretting_. The memory and the words overwhelmed: Crowley plunged down suddenly and sucked hard. Aziraphale came in almost startled, unsteady spasms, his knees threatening to buckle. He carefully steadied by a delirious Crowley, pleased that he has done so well. Aziraphale peacefully smooths Crowley's hair, strokes little tracing circles on his forehead and temples.

" _Crowley_ ," the name is sweet and soft, reverent. An elegant counterpoint to his own half sobbing "Angel"s. This is music that is meant to be played together: the sardonic and flustered counterpoints its gracenote.

It would be conventional at this point to say the lemonade is forgotten. Not at all. It's both delicious and refreshing to a romance that radiates such intimacy. And such heat.

**Author's Note:**

>  **[1]** Okay people, this may seem forced: but, for serious, try quickly restoring some inconsolable toddler's cone melting all over _both_ of you; trying to outrun rapid, sticky Hell (that shit does **not** wipe off), and see how you deal with it. I guarantee it will look exactly like this.
> 
>  **[2]** Ever the quick study, Aziraphale has made leaps and bounds since _#ILYBINILWY_


End file.
